Carre: Outlaw Part 16

"Good-bye, Johnnie," Elizabeth said, lifting her hand in a last salute.

Leaning over to check his stirrup leather, he seemed not to have heard until Munro nudged him. Looking over, he said, "Good-bye, Elizabeth," with a small distance in his voice, as if his mind had s.h.i.+fted away in those few short moments.

She tried to ward off that urbane coolness-or rather, she told herself to be realistic. Johnnie Carre was a busy man, hours late to meet his obligations in Parliament, with a trading fleet to manage and estates to oversee. His life couldn't possibly revolve around her wishes. But her heart wouldn't so easily respond to the rationale of logic, and an incipient small sorrow insinuated itself into the extraordinary happiness he'd given her.

The men rode at a hard, steady gallop, both aware of the distance to Edinburgh. Johnnie knew he shouldn't have stayed so long. Munro didn't think they'd reach the capital in time for the meeting in the morning. There was no opportunity for conversation on the swift ride north unless they cared to shout at each other over the sound of the wind and pounding hoofbeats.

Just as well, Johnnie thought, knowing Munro was going to take issue with the nature of his sojourn at Three Kings. He had a right to. But it was as if a page had turned or a chapter had closed in Johnnie's mind; his thoughts were focused on the session ahead-so pressing was the decision on the Act of Security. If London agreed to approve it, nothing so monumental had occurred in Scottish history since the two countries had merged. If London continued to resist ... they would have to see that support continued strong against the Court party. If the Queen's money had found some additional necessitous Lords during the short adjournment, London might have gathered enough votes to pa.s.s a limited act of supply. And his mind began the doc.u.menting of names, the certain votes, those against, the wavering-a methodical looping litany through his brain so familiar now after two years it had taken on an intimate cadence.

When the two men stopped briefly to rest their horses and eat, Johnnie braced himself for the expected discussion or, if Munro's expression was any indication, he reflected, handing his reins over to the ostler, perhaps "interrogation" would be the more appropriate word.

Their conversation began politely enough over ale while they were waiting for their food. They spoke of the unique beauty of Elizabeth's building site, of the neighborhood gentry they'd met, of the Gerard sisters, of Redmond's exceptional skill with a knife.

"You didn't see all of his exhibition, did you?" Munro said.

"Lord Ayton dragged me off to the stables for a short time to see his hunter after five or six throws by Redmond, but I was impressed-no doubt. The man could cut the wings off a fly at fifty paces."

"Elizabeth is fortunate to have him as her captain."

"And he her," Johnnie said with a smile. "I imagine she's an improvement over Hotchane as master."

"She's genuinely kind, not a quality often found in beautiful women. And she's wonderfully accomplished. Didn't you think her plans for the facade were well done?"

"They were remarkable; she's a remarkable woman," Johnnie agreed, responding to Munro's observation as the serving la.s.s put the fowl and fresh-baked bread before them. "I wish she were more available."

Munro's glance swiveled up, the knife he held poised above the roast chicken on his plate arrested in midair. "You sound as though she isn't available."

"She isn't to me. You know I've no intention of marrying anytime soon, and Elizabeth isn't the quality of woman you can take as mistress."

"You mean she's too wellborn? What of Roxane?" He'd laid his knife aside.

"She's not my acknowledged mistress, as you well know, nor is Janet Lindsay or any of the others," Johnnie added, antic.i.p.ating Munro's challenge to the issue of n.o.bility. "Perhaps I simply hate Harold G.o.dfrey more deeply than I despise any other man on the face of the earth."

"She's estranged from her father."

Johnnie looked over the chicken leg he was about to take a bite from. "Is this a debate?"

"I don't want you to cause her unhappiness. You know that."

"I haven't. I won't." Johnnie put his food aside, his eyes steady on his cousin. His voice when he spoke was carefully modulated. "Elizabeth and I both understood the parameters of our ... tryst."

"Elizabeth sounded as though she was expecting a future visit from you when we left."

Johnnie had the grace to look uncomfortable. "I may have said something like that to her."

Munro leaned forward the merest distance. "But you won't be going back."

Johnnie hesitated: Munro's posture, his tone of voice, were stamped with temper. "No," he said after a short moment. "Regardless of how you feel," he softly added. "She's the daughter of my most hated enemy, of the Carres' traditional adversary; England at the moment qualifies as a mortal foe with swords locked as we are in the Parliaments, with the Border garrisons being strengthened. But at base, politics aside ... very selfishly, I don't wish to marry."

Munro leaned back in his chair, his vehemence abruptly muted. "Which you'd have to do with Elizabeth Graham," he quietly declared.

"Yes. I'm sorry." Johnnie knew the affection Munro had for Elizabeth. He, too, was briefly sorry, Elizabeth Graham wouldn't be easy to forget.

"She'll survive, I'm sure," Munro said with surprising calm, as if he'd reached some emotional accord with Johnnie's decision. "After eight deplorable years with Hotchane Graham," he said with the bluntness of long friends.h.i.+p, "her disappointment over you should be negligible."

"Exactly." Johnnie smiled disarmingly, gratified to recognize the Munro of old; his cousin as gallant knight was a more recent aberration. "Elizabeth often speaks of the new freedoms gained in widowhood. She won't pine away for lack of my company."

"Not with the foundation beginning next week and a building schedule to oversee for the next two years."

"Not with George Baldwin constantly underfoot," Johnnie facetiously added, although he experienced a swift twinge of discontent at the thought-as quickly brushed aside. "Now do you care to wager on who's been bribed over to Tweedale's party while we were gone?" he went on as if a change of subject were suddenly necessary. "I'd say Belhaven and Montrose, perhaps Selkirk."

"I'll only give you odds on the amount it took to buy their votes," Munro replied, applying himself to his food once again. "All three have sold Scotland away."

Johnnie paused for a moment before responding as the rancor clutched at his stomach. "It's a dirty game England's playing," he bitterly murmured, "and the poverty of Scotland is making it easy."

"The Court may not win."

"Over time I'm not so sure." A weariness infused the Laird of Ravensby's voice.

"We've kept them at bay for almost two years now."

Johnnie smiled. "Perhaps you're right. Who knows ... our David might succeed after all against their Goliath. If the war on the Continent serves us."

"And if the Act of Security's approved by London."

"Yes, if ..."

And the serious state of Scotland's affairs superseded further discussion of Elizabeth Graham's future.

CHAPTER 16.

They rode into the outskirts of Edinburgh the next morning, their horses lathered and worn, both men aching with weariness. Arriving at Ravensby House a short time later, Johnnie had barely time to bathe, eat, and dress before leaving for his prearranged meeting with Roxburgh and Fletcher. The Country party planned to discuss strategy that day, prior to the session on Monday.

"You look like h.e.l.l," Roxburgh exclaimed as Johnnie dropped into a chair at their table in Steil's tavern.

"And I look better than I feel." Running his palms over his still-damp hair, Johnnie slid lower in his chair. "I haven't slept much lately," he said in a voice rough with fatigue. "Tell me what I missed."

"You missed Roxie's sailing party, for one thing," Roxburgh quipped.

"Oh, Lord," Johnnie groaned. He'd forgotten to send his regrets.

"But your brother manfully stepped into the breech," Roxburgh roguishly went on. "In case you care."

"Thank G.o.d." The crease in Johnnie's brow disappeared.

"No desperate concern?" Roxburgh knew better; he'd been friends with Johnnie for years.

"Did I miss anything of a political nature?" Johnnie pointedly returned, not about to discuss the extent of his attachment to his lovers.

"The messengers to and from London put a tidy sum into the pockets of the proprietors of the post-stations," Fletcher sardonically noted, looking up from his breakfast. "Tweedale's been pressing G.o.dolphin to agree to the Act of Security gossip reports."

"Have you heard how London intends to respond?" The world of Scottish politics was small.

"Rumor has it G.o.dolphin will capitulate."

No immediate surge of triumph invaded Johnnie's soul; he knew England too well. His voice was guarded. "Do you think it's true?"

Fletcher shrugged, breaking a crusty piece of bread in two to dip into his chocolate. "We'll know soon enough."

But it took two more days of debate and behind-the-scenes bargaining, the government still desperately trying to salvage its program, loath to admit defeat.

Until Tweedale finally realized the session of 1704, like that of the previous year, would withhold the vote on supply, would refuse to agree on the Succession. His orders from Lord Treasurer G.o.dolphin, Queen Anne's chief minister, had been clear. With the current military uncertainties in Europe causing the English markets and bankers to tremble, any further provocation of Scotland at this time, he had written, was unrealistic. If all else failed, if negotiations broke down, Tweedale, as High Commissioner of Scotland, had G.o.dolphin's consent to "touch the scepter" to the Act of Security, making it law.

This he did on August 5.

The House exploded into uproarious, clamorous revelry. The Scottish Parliament, standing firm for over two years on its policy of transferring power to itself from the monarch of England, had won a notable victory.

But the Scottish Parliament's const.i.tutional ideas and its frank intention to increase its power at the expense of the monarchy were regarded in England as something that might be dangerously contagious.

On August 28, before debate could begin on arming Scotland, on orders from London Tweedale quickly adjourned the session. Until October 7, the members were told.

But London had no intention of recalling the Scottish Parliament until Queen Anne's Court had regained its position of power. Marlborough had won a momentous victory against France at Blenheim on August 13-the news reaching London on the twenty-first. Now Scotland's defiance could be dealt with at leisure.

And while the noteworthy business of Scotland's bid for independence consumed Johnnie's time, Elizabeth, too, had been occupied with momentous events-albeit of a decidedly personal nature.

For the first time in her life, her monthly courses had been late.

Initially, she'd dared not consider the possibility she was with child; she'd been disheartened too many times in the past when her hopes had been dashed. It would be a precarious tempting of fate to think about so glorious a dream as having Johnnie Carre's child. And she attempted to dismiss the romantic conceit, an impossible exercise, she discovered. Despite her staunchest efforts, her mind recklessly contemplated nothing else. She found herself totally absorbed with an overwhelming excitement that possessed her heart and mind and soul. She counted the days a hundred times on her fingers and in writing, too, as if the pa.s.sage of time was more authentic in black ink.

Five days pa.s.sed, and then a week....

Was it possible when she'd waited so long, wished so earnestly?

Ten more days were gone in August, and then two weeks....

She was dizzy with dreams, light-headed with hope.

She lost track of her building project, which had been her entire life until then. Although she appeared at the site each day, overseeing and authorizing, giving suggestions, answering questions, she was oddly detached, heedless to all but the astonis.h.i.+ng drama unfolding within her body.

Could it be she wasn't barren?

Would she at last have a child of her own to love?

Had all her tearful prayers been answered by a curious twist of fate in Robbie Carre's capture?

She didn't entertain fantasies of Johnnie Carre in her enchanting vignettes of plump pink babies. He'd expressed his opinion on babies succinctly enough the night before he left. And she hadn't heard from him in the month since, although he'd sent the silks as promised-an extravagant wagonful-or more probably Munro had sent them; she hadn't been sure the enclosed note was in Johnnie's hand. The brief phrases had nothing in them even remotely personal; he'd only wished her pleasant use of the silks and good wishes on her building. And he'd signed himself simply "Ravensby," as if he'd been writing to his lawyer.

She'd expected no more with the manner of his leave-taking. She wasn't surprised or prostrate with grief. Her life had been too long one of compromise and half-measures to expect sudden undiluted happiness. But she allowed herself a small crowing jubilation on the first day of September. Her courses were now more than two weeks late.

George Baldwin remarked on her special cheer that afternoon when he rode over to bring her a new book he'd received from London and view the progress on her new home.

Over tea he said, "You positively glow, Elizabeth. Have you been out in the sun too long?" he teasingly added, careful not to make too personal a remark.

Elizabeth smiled, thinking how different he was from Johnnie Carre, who dared anything. Who took what he wanted. "Perhaps it was the sun, George, or the warm tea," she answered with a smile. "But I admit, my spirits are high. The building is going well," she finished, dissembling with ease, her jubilant mood beyond the scruples of absolute honesty.

"I marvel at your unique abilities, Elizabeth. Most women content themselves with household duties."

Most women didn't have Harold G.o.dfrey for a father, she wished to say, nor were they married to Hotchane Graham. One quickly learned to cultivate competence, a recognizable trait of defense against ruthless men. "This is merely a different aspect of running a household," she pleasantly contradicted. "And as a widow, I must learn to do things for myself," she added with a conventional politesse George would understand.

"There's no need for you to remain a widow, Elizabeth. You need only say yes to me, and I'd gladly take over all your burdens." He'd set his cup aside, and his expression, familiar after numerous proposals, offered her genuine affection.

"Thank you, George. You know how I appreciate your friends.h.i.+p, but you know, too, how I value my freedom. Hotchane was a difficult man." She shamelessly engaged in a dash of theatrics, lowering her eyes briefly in what she hoped was a portrayal of tragic memory.

"He was an appalling man," George heatedly countered. "You deserve better from life. But all men aren't Hotchane," he added, understanding any reluctance she might have for marriage after her first experience. "And while I'd never presume on your good nature, if at any time my affection will bring you comfort, I'd be honored to offer you my heart."

George Baldwin was an enigma to her, a man too benevolent to be believed, too moral for authenticity in a world that honored neither trait. She never quite knew how to respond to him, for he invoked in her no feelings at all other than perplexity and a mild friends.h.i.+p. "You're very kind, George, but, please, let's talk of other things. I'm not interested in marriage. Really. Hotchane was generous to me at least in his will; I'm quite self-sufficient."

"You may get lonely, Elizabeth."

She was already, she thought-for a wild, rash young man who would probably not remember her. But years of prudent caution answered in place of her heart. "I don't have time for loneliness. You see how busy I am."

"I intend to be persistent," George said with a smile.

"Then we'll be persistent together," Elizabeth lightly answered. "But I do enjoy your visits, George. And thank you again for the book."

"I can at least fill your library. But I thought Mr. Falsey much too prudent in his castigation of the Western Rising. Personally, I would have seen the rebels all thrown in the Tower."

"But then that depends on your political persuasion. Others would have seen them go free or take the throne."

"A dramatic womanly solution."

"A realistic one if you were for Monmouth."

A week later two of Hotchane's sons called on her. Their sudden appearance wasn't for social reasons, nor was their visit sociable, and she was ultimately sorry she'd been pleasant enough to let them through Redmond's gimlet-eyed gauntlet.

Matthew and Lawson Graham were obliged to leave their weapons at the door, but a chill of fear struck her as she stood across from them in her drawing room. Large, hulking men, they were younger versions of her husband, although older than she in age; Matthew, Hotchane's eldest, was fifty now, his brother forty-six. And they stared at her with their father's cool detachment.

"I'd offer you refreshments," she said, keeping her voice deliberately distant, "but I a.s.sume you've come on pressing business." Their armed retainers filled her drive.

"We've decided you should remarry," Matthew unceremoniously said from the sun-filled threshold. "Your year of mourning will soon be over." He could have been giving her the weather report, so prosaic was his delivery.